She opens a new message. Types: I need to see you.
The heartburn spikes. Rachael presses harder against her chest, but it’s not just acid now. It’s grief. It’s rage. It’s the feeling of her own life dissolving like aspirin in water. MissaX 24 06 11 Rachael Cavalli Heartburn Pt 1
Silence. A clock ticks somewhere in the hall. She opens a new message
The house is too quiet. Her wedding ring catches the light as she lifts the wooden spoon to taste. She winces—not from the heat, but from the familiar burn rising in her chest. Heartburn. Again. Rachael presses harder against her chest, but it’s
He leaves. The front door closes softly, a coward’s exit. She stands there a long moment, then sinks onto a stool at the island. She pulls out her phone. Scrolls past photos of Chloe, past recipes saved for dinners she’ll never make, past a calendar full of couples therapy appointments she canceled.
She sends it to her lawyer. Then sets the phone down, face against the cool marble, as the heartburn burns and burns and will not stop.
From the hallway, footsteps. Her husband, MARK (40s, handsome in a tired way, briefcase still in hand), stops at the kitchen entrance. He doesn’t step inside.